The Night Descending
by thequeergiraffe
Summary: Post-Reichenbach one-shot inspired by the "Sherlock is a cat" meme. Somehow Sherlock is not a cat in my version. Hmm. John/Mary romantic, and you can read the John/Sherlock through whichever lens you'd like. Name comes from the Iron & Wine song of the same title. Rated T for some descriptiveness of injuries. Also, in the words of River Song: "Spoilers!"


"John?"

The man in question- small, generally unintimidating, currently yawning widely and patting absently at the tuft of grey-blonde hair at the back of his head which refuses to lie down- swivels and blinks blearily at his wife. "Mmm?"

The former Miss Morstan has her hands on her hips and her brows pulled together in a way that John finds both endearing and potentially worrisome. She's pretty, John's wife, but what he likes best about her is her cleverness. She has eyes that remind John of _him_: pale, penetrating, often narrowed (though unlike _his _eyes, hers never condemn or dismiss; Mary's eyes are kind, for all that they're so sharp). At the moment, John's wife (is their anniversary soon? John thinks it might be- but unlike That Day, which is permanently fixed in his mind, his wedding day wanders from June 15th to July 10th and anywhere in between in the muddled mess of his middle-aged mind) is looking so thoughtful and perplexed because there is a cat perched on the windowsill of their small, second-story flat (which is nowhere near Baker Street; in fact, if one drew a line from John's old flat to the one he shares with Mary, one would quickly discover that he lives exactly as far away from Baker Street as is feasibly possible while still living in London, though John doesn't realize this in any kind of conscious way).

The cat is a problem.

"Are you sure," Mary asks, in a tone that suggests _she's_ rather certain he isn't, "you've not been feeding the cat?" Before John can protest, she quickly adds, "Only it's been hanging around so much, and generally animals don't hang about like that unless they're being encouraged to do so."

"Of course I've not been feeding the cat," John lies easily, scratching at his stomach. In fact, he's been feeding the cat with astonishing regularity. He keeps a bag of cat food out by the bins (Mary never takes out the rubbish; that is a strictly relegated John-chore, just as John never does the laundry) and pours a healthy portion out into a little dish every evening. He also lets the cat in through the window sometimes, when Mary's out, and pats his spine, scratches under his chin, rubs his ears. The cat is a rough sort of tom, long of leg and lean like only an alley-cat can be, but John likes the cat's domineering nature and the low, deep rumble of his purr.

Mary, unfortunately, is allergic to cats.

It's clear to John that Mary is torn between wanting to believe him and knowing, intuitively, that John is lying. John makes up her mind by kissing her cheek and ambling off toward the kitchen. "Have fun at work, love," he says over his shoulder. John hasn't worked a day since Sh- since That Day, partly because he has no need to (at some point during their eighteen-month relationship/partnership/whatever you'd like to call it _he _had drawn up a will in which John was tidily taken care of for the foreseeable future) and partly because head injuries give him something akin to anxiety attacks (in fact, they most certainly _are _anxiety attacks, but John prefers the evasive language) and John would be far too embarrassed to mention as much to potential employer. Mary, however, is a school teacher, and she insists on a) contributing to the household income, b) having a life of her own, and c) making a difference in the world via something she's passionate about: education. John likes this about her (John, of course, likes almost everything about her) and he doesn't mind the time alone.

"If you pick up the shopping," Mary says, meaning _please pick up the shopping_, "be sure to get some veg. You never get enough veg, you know. Love you, darling!" The door closes behind her; the sound rings through the flat.

John gets his tea settled. As it steeps, he wanders over to the window, flicks the latch, and throws it open. The cat meows- none of that shrill, kittenish nonsense, either; this cat's meow is all baritone- and John slides his hand down the length of the black tom's bumpy spine. "Hullo, Sherlock," John says quietly, almost drowned out by the sound of the cat's purring. "Miss me, did you?"

x

John isn't mad. He knows the cat isn't really _him_. Grey eyes and black, unkempt fur do not a former flatmate make. _He _is…well, he's not coming back, that's bloody well certain, and if he somehow (somehow, somehow, a miracle perhaps, it could still happen couldn't it?) _did _come back, it would almost certainly not be in the form of a yowling, tail-curling, claw-kneading tomcat.

That doesn't stop John from nearly going into cardiac arrest at the sight of the cat lying, bloodied and shallow-breathed, beside his food dish one grey-lighted evening.

Blood. So much blood.

John drops to his knees and holds his hands over the cat as though his desperation alone can stop the bleeding. "Sherlock," he mumbles, his throat going dry. "Sherlock, Sherlock, what happened to you?"

The cat's eyes seem to follow John's as the good doctor searches, his lower lip pulled between his teeth, for the site of the injury. "A car? Sherlock, were you hit by a car?" The cat's only response is several quick, panted breaths, his rough tongue curled and pressed against his teeth. "No," John decides, a rush of hope lighting in his chest, "no, no, you were in a fight. That's a shallow wound, Sherlock; I can fix that. You…you just wait here." John leaps to his feet and dashes upstairs. He passes Mary on the way to his medical bag, but if she calls after him (and she does, several times, each repetition more concerned than the last) John doesn't hear her. Supplies in hand, John runs back downstairs and drops down beside the cat.

Grey eyes meet his. And although humans have the strangest habit of anthropomorphising everything they can, John thinks its genuine trust he sees in the cat's unwavering stare.

The cat is patched and sleeping deeply when John realises that Mary is kneeling beside him, her eyes damp and her hand reassuringly clasped on his knee. He gives her a weak smile. "I've been feeding the cat," John says.

Mary smiles. "I know." She sniffles- whether from allergies or emotion, John isn't sure, although it happens to be both- and lays her head on his shoulder. "Bring the cat upstairs, darling. We can take turns staying up with him, if you'd like."

There seems to be a hard lump in John's throat. "It's all right. I'll stay up with him, love," he says softly. And then, even more softly: "Thank you." He isn't sure _exactly _why he's thanking her: for setting her allergies aside for the comfort of this pitiful creature at their feet? For her small, warm hand and her kind eyes? Or, maybe, he's thanking her for knowing what he's seeing (blood on the sidewalk; pale and unfixed eyes endlessly staring) and not saying anything about it.

Either way, John's thankful. He cradles the cat in one arm like a sleeping infant and holds Mary's hand as they go upstairs. And John is okay, in this moment. The tranquility won't last; in seven months, one week, two days, three hours, and six minutes, John's life will flip upside down all over again and this small peace will seem an impossible thing, a moment in some other man's life.

But right now, right this second… John is okay.


End file.
